


Under Lock And Key

by Fandoms_Are_Life37



Series: The War of Insurrection [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate History, America is not the Hero (Hetalia), America lost the revolution, Angst, Blood, British Empire, But he doesn't express it well, Colony America (Hetalia), Crying, Depression, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, England does care about him, Established Relationship, Gaslighting, He doesn't truly love him, Historical References, Historical figures mentioned, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's sad guys, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Sexual Slavery, Now he is very sad, Or else he wouldn't have done these things to him, Poor America (Hetalia), Punishment, Self-Harm, Suicide, Triggers, UKUS, Victim Blaming, house arrest, in that order, prisoner, this doesn't have a happy ending, trigger warning, very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24634111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Are_Life37/pseuds/Fandoms_Are_Life37
Summary: AU where England won the revolutionary war. America slides deeper and deeper into depression.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America/England (Hetalia)
Series: The War of Insurrection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879981
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	Under Lock And Key

**Author's Note:**

> Word count: 3,560
> 
> Estimated read time: 14 minutes
> 
> Warnings: Very toxic relationship, emotionally abusive relationship, deaths of historical figures, language, very angsty, suicide, depression, implied sexual abuse

America's whole body shook and he sobbed on the ground. "Please, don't! Stop, I'm begging you!"

England looked down at him with a sympathetic smile and ran a hand through his hair, cooing, "I'm sorry, darling. But they're traitors. They have to die. After this, though, we can start over."

"No!" America pleaded, grabbing the leg of his pants, "Please, England, don't do this, they're my friends."

His expression hardened. "No?"

He froze. "Wait, I didn't mean to say that, I-"

"What have we talked about, America? You lost your silly rebellion. You don't get to say 'no' anymore."

With tear-filled eyes, America watched the men he looked up to as heroes be marched to the gallows.

George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, James Madison, John Adams, Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, John Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette, and more- one after another.

"England, I'll give you anything, just don't kill them!"

He laughed and tutted like he was speaking to a child. "Oh, Amerca. You're already going to give me everything I want. Now be quiet and watch what happens to those that defy the British Empire."

***

America sat quietly at the table, stirring his oatmeal. The sun was beginning to peak over the buildings of London, painting everything in its soft light.

England came down the stairs in a rush and smiled briefly at America before opening the pantry to look for breakfast-to-go. "You're up early."

"I didn't sleep well," He admitted, thinking back to the nightmare he'd had wherein he relived the execution of his closest friends. But, of course, he couldn't tell England that part.

"Ah. Well, I'm off to my meeting. Clean up while I'm gone and don't forget to water the plants in the downstairs bathroom." England breezed by, planting a quick kiss on America's cheek before heading out the door, slamming it behind him in his haste.

America flinched at the sound before reminding himself that it was just the door. There was a time when England's absence would have filled him with joy. He would have paced the house and plotted his escape, determined to catch the next ship back home, but that was a long time ago.

He'd been caught one too many times. Eventually, around 1870, he'd given up trying to grab his every chance. Instead, he lay in wait, silently plotting his revenge and waiting for the perfect opportunity to break out. He had been extra good and done his best to build England's trust. That wasn't easy- England knew he wanted to leave and that he was faking it, but if England was honest with himself, he didn't care. He just wanted America to love him like he did before the rebellion.

There was a daring day when he made a break for it in 1942. England had been swept up in a war and he figured that it was his perfect chance, but he'd been caught by some of England's men, beaten, and dragged back to England's house.

He could still see the look on England's face when he came home. It wasn't the nonchalant anger he was used to, nor the twisted version of love when England assured him that all of this was for his own good. No. He had a dark look in his eyes when he entered the house and removed his shoes. The lock clicked and England advanced on him like a predator cornering his prey.

"I thought we were past this, America," he'd hissed.

And after that... Well, America didn't want to think about what came after that. It was too painful to relive. All of America's work had been for nothing and he realized that there was no escaping.

His fighting spirit finally, finally broke. Forget when the redcoats defeated the Continental Army back in 1783. Sure, it was a loss, but it wasn't enough to make America lose hope. But on that day- England won.

After, America's spark was stopped out. The light in his eyes faded, his will dissolved, and he was exactly what England wanted him to be: compliant.

That new, docile nature was something England knew he wasn't faking. Part of him felt guilty for crushing America's resolve, but mostly, he was just glad he didn't have to worry about America fleeing again.

Not that he didn't still take precautions. He wouldn't want that tenacious attitude to come back, after all. As technology evolved, so did the pretty prison he put America in. Instead of having guards surrounding the house or outside-facing locks on each window, he equipped America with an anklet that would emit painful electric shocks if he left the house, plus it would set off all the alarms in place to prevent America from running. Its harmful features were only activated once when England was showing him how it worked, but it had been enough to convince America not to leave.

"...And it has a tracker so I know where you are," England had explained as he fastened it around America's ankle.

"Don't you already have a chip in my neck?"

"Well, yes, but this is for extra precaution. Oh, and it has this handy feature. It knows about the perimeters of the house and if it leaves them, it trips the alarms, plus it has an electric shock ability."

America stared back at him blankly. "Okay."

"I should probably test it, just once, to make sure it's operating properly. Come here." England took America by the hand and led him to the front door, opening it halfway. "Put your foot outside the door."

Tentatively, America took a single step over the threshold. Immediately, a horrible pain shot through his leg. He cried out and fell down, scooting back in the house as fast as possible.

England shut the door and kneeled down beside him, brushing hair off his forehead and kissing it. "There, there, darling. I'm sorry. Does it hurt?"

America had nodded, eyes welling up with tears.

He had sighed and kissed each of his cheeks as if it would make the pain go away. "Well, at least we know it works. I'm sorry. You know I only do it because I love you, right?"

Weakly, he had nodded again, allowing England to scoop him up and carry him back to the couch.

After that, the ankle bracelet never came off. England invested in the waterproof one so that he could even wear it in the shower.

But that was in the past. Worrying about it didn't make it any different. So America got up, stretched, and started doing the dishes. He had a lot of work to get done before England came home. If he wasn't done in time, England would probably yell at him, and he didn't want that.

Or, that's what he told himself. The truth was that he didn't really care. Mostly, he avoided England's anger because he needed to do what England told him to do. His orders were the only thing that kept him functioning. Everything was just so numb. If he didn't have England around to tell him what to do all the time, he'd likely just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling all day as opposed to only doing so for half the day after he finished his chores.

It's not like he enjoyed being so dead inside. He remembered back when he was full of life and energy- when he was himself. Because he wasn't that person anymore; he was just a hollowed-out shell of the man he used to be.

There was a desire deep inside him to feel something again. He searched for it as best as he could when his whole world was a two-story brick townhouse squeezed in between others that looked exactly like it.

He tried to find it in himself, first, by attempting to stir emotion. America sat in the lounge for hours thinking about things that used to invoke emotion. The day he fought his last battle, the day he was locked up, the day England broke him, the triumph he felt near the beginning of his rebellion, all of those things. But it didn't work. It just made him feel exhausted (which had become a persistent problem. America always felt drained).

Then, he tried to find it in pain. Gash after gash was left on his arms from him driving a steak knife through his skin. They bled profusely, but he barely registered the sensation, so he dug deeper and deeper until he realized that it wasn't going to work. England came home moments later to find him still sitting on the floor of the kitchen, covered in his own blood, and just staring blankly at the stained knife on the linoleum floor.

"America!" England had cried, throwing his briefcase aside and running to his side. He seized his wrists and looked over his arms frantically. "How long have you been like this?"

He'd just shrugged and struggled to put a sentence together. Things looked blurry and his head was clouded with confusion. "Ten minutes, maybe."

England had grabbed a towel and pressed on the cuts hard to stop the bleeding while staring at America's face. "Why did you do this?"

America had looked at him back, right in the eye, and said, "I wanted to feel it."

He never mentioned that day ever again, but he canceled multiple world meetings after that so that he could keep an eye on America. Sometimes, he was scared that it was his fault, but he pushed that thought away and denied it relentlessly. Facing the truth was too hard.

England regretted the way he hurt America once in a while. He didn't mean to burn out the light in his eyes, he just didn't want America to leave him. But it was too late for that.

To try to make amends, he apologized for what happened in 1942. America didn't explicitly forgive him, he had just claimed that he didn't care anymore. Somehow, that was even worse.

After the incident in the kitchen, America sought feeling in England. He thought that, as toxic as the relationship was, he didn't have a lot of options for company, so he might as well make the most of it. There was a phase they went through when America sought physical contact all the time.

When England showed him affection, he'd lean into the touch. When England kissed him, he'd kiss back with twice the hunger. And when England wanted him, he enthusiastically obliged, even initiation it sometimes. It was a sudden change in pace and England had been suspicious for a while, but he craved America's love and was desperate to convince himself that everything was okay again.

The plan worked a little. America was able to regain physical feelings, but emotionally, he was still severely lacking. With that realization, he exited his brief phase (much to England's dismay).

From then on, he knew where his path would end- it was only a matter of time. So today, he decided he was done. There was no point in continuing to be alive without living.

Neatly, America set up his supplies. A rope and stool underneath the ceiling fan, a pen and paper on the coffee table, etc. But when he sat down to write his suicide note, no words came to him. What could he tell England that he didn't already know? Would England even care?

"Of course he would care," America said to himself. "With me dead, he won't have anyone to clean up the house."

Yes, England would likely be very miffed about that.

America set the pen down and looped the rope around the ceiling fan. It was fine. England didn't deserve a note, anyway.

The London home was well-built and its fans were securely anchored into the ceiling, so when he kicked the stool out from under him, it held fast, unyielding as England himself while America choked.

***

England dug around in his pocket for the keys to the door. He was deeply irritated already, and the difficulty he had in locating them only pissed him off more. France had been his usual perverted self throughout the entire meeting, Canada was as cold to him as always, and China had been particularly stubborn today, all serving to worsen his mood.

He got the key out and shoved it into the lock, turning it with a flick of his wrist and entering. The house was very quiet, but that wasn't new. America was a very quiet person. Still, something felt off.

With a shake of his head, he kicked off his shoes and ignored the feeling, going into the kitchen to get some food. On second thought, he wanted tea. A good, piping hot cup of tea was exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

"America," He called, sitting down at the table and opening up his laptop. There was much work to be done and it would be best to get started as soon as possible- he'd just tell America to make it.

There was no reply. England said his name again, louder this time, in case America didn't hear him, but the house was perfectly still.

That was weird. America always came when he called. He was normally so obedient.

England rolled his eyes and got up from the table. Great, America was probably in a foul mood, too. He thought he'd dealt with the last of America's rebelliousness long ago. Why he was ignoring his direct address was beyond his imagination.

"America!" England shouted, stomping up the stairs. "America, cut it out!"

He shoved open the door to the bedroom, but America wasn't in there. Annoyed, he went down the hall and checked the other upstairs rooms. Nothing.

This was strange; something was wrong, England could feel it, but he continued to suppress the feeling. America was his colony, he had every right to be angry with him. He shouldn't jump straight to concern. But where was he?

Each stair creaked as he stormed back downstairs. "America, this isn't funny. Quit being insubordinate."

He wandered down another hall, checking his office, but it too was empty. The same was true for the foyer and bathrooms. Next, England went down the hall to the living room.

When he rounded the corner, his blood went cold. "Oh my god, America!"

Frantically, he dashed over to where he was hanging and got him down, shaking him profusely. "America, wake up! Wake up, please!"

But America was completely limp in his arms with a heart that wasn't beating and lungs that weren't breathing.

England began to cry, pulling him closer and cradling his head. "No... no... no... w- why?"

Realizing that his question may be able to be answered, he glanced around the room through tears that blurred his vision. A piece of paper was on the coffee table, so he leaned over and grabbed it, expecting some kind of explanation, maybe an apology, maybe even some consolation, but the paper was blank.

He threw it to the side, sobbing as he clutched him. The truth resonated with him and he felt sick to his stomach as he finally faced the fact that this was his fault. England didn't need a suicide note to know why America killed himself.

He knew exactly why.


End file.
